


dwell in my disasters

by otherwords



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 11:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3727108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherwords/pseuds/otherwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well I looked my demons in the eyes, laid bare my chest, said, "Do your best; destroy me. /<br/>You see I've been to hell and back so many times, I must admit you kind of bore me."</p><p>Steve's on the road, and the not knowing is killing him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dwell in my disasters

Steve is drinking flat soda in the passenger seat and something about the dust hung in the air and the heat they can't fight 'cause the AC's broken and the sun is merciless on these roads, something about the way the soda's sweet on his tongue but not quite  _right_ , his mind reaching for the taste of something long ago but coming up empty against the sticky feeling at the back of his throat -- something about it all and then he's swallowed up by memories of summers too many years ago to count and he can feel tears start to prick up, but then Sam's banging on the dash ("Damn this stupid truck. I swore I fixed the AC last summer.") and looking over, saying, "Hey, man, you alright?" and Steve's nodding his head yes, of course. He's fine. He's just tired.

Of course he's tired. How long have they been on the road? (Days, now. Weeks, maybe. It's all the same to Steve. He never bothered to get reacquainted with the time after he woke up, and maybe that was selfish, but he sees no reason to change it now.) But how long has _he_ been on this road? All his life, he thinks distantly, can feel the same longing from the man he was a lifetime ago. All his life he's been chasing after Bucky, and all his life he's been coming up short.

He is flooded with hatred for little Steve, for tiny, broken Steve with his anger and his bruised knuckles and his bloody nose and his goddamn heart, fighting so hard he didn't think to look behind him and see what kind of wake he was leaving. Well, he can see it now, can see exactly the path he's carved through the years, the way he pulled Sarah and Bucky and Erskine and Peggy along with him, until one by one they all dropped off, and he had been so blind as to think it was  _his_ loss. He clenches his fists, can feel the strength in his hands eating itself, can feel the power behind a grip not good enough to just hang on to someone.

Sam is flipping through radio channels, trying to get reception, carefully not looking at Steve, and he thinks it will pass, thinks he'll get through this moment the way he's gotten through all the rest, but he takes another sip of his drink and all of a sudden he's bursting, he's burning, he's falling. "Pull over," he says, and Sam starts to ask something, starts to reassess and patch, the way Sam always does, but Steve's hands go to the dash, to the door handle. "Pull over," he says, and he's ready to open the door, but Sam slams on the breaks, pulls them onto the loose gravel of the shoulder, tires screeching at the stress, and Steve's out the door before they've come to a complete stop, out the door and running. He leaps over a barbed wire fence, takes off into an empty field, grass crackling and dry under his feet, ripping at the knees of his jeans.

He's running and he's not sure he can stop, not sure he's ever stopped.

They're in the middle of nowhere, and maybe they're on their way to somewhere, but it's taking a hell of a long time to get there. He trips over something, gets his feet back under him, keeps running and he swears this time he won't stop, but he does to throw up flat soda and diner food, falls to his knees and heaves into the dry grass that cuts his palms and leaves a million tiny cuts against his skin that sting as they already begin to heal.

And there's Sam back in truck, spinning the dials on the radio and waiting. Steve can't help but be selfish, can he?

He walks back slowly, lets the sun eat at the back of his neck, bleaching his hair white gold like when he was a kid. When he gets to the truck, Sam throws him a glove compartment first aid kit and a bottle of water. "Get in the truck, idiot," he says, and Steve does, quiet.

They drive for another hour in silence, even the static on the radio consumed into nothing.

"You want to talk about it?" asks Sam.

Steve lets the moment stretch out between them. "No," he says.

Sam nods, taps his palms against the steering wheel. "We'll find him," he says.

"We don't know who we'll find."

He doesn't know who he turned him into.

Tears hot in his eyes, like summer. Lifetimes ago, months pulled to breaking, heat so thick it came back up from the pavement, cooked the stones of the buildings, turned bedrooms into ovens and sunburned the skin of little Irish boys who didn't know when to quit. (That was something, his brain provided, the thought dull. He hadn't sunburned since the serum.) Running down streets after dark, being dragged to parties and bars that he didn't want to be at, but wouldn't go home until Bucky was ready to go, standing not quite close enough to start anything, not quite far enough apart to let it go.

He rubs at his face angrily, drinks half the bottle of water to try to drown out the lingering sticky sweet taste of vomit. "You didn't have to come with me," he says, avoids Sam's eyes.

"That's not what the problem is," says Sam. "You want to stop tonight?"

"I'd rather keep going," says Steve.

Sam nods. "Sure. We'll get gas and push on through. The light'll last another good few hours."

Steve watches the fields roll past, fiddles with the loose threads on the seat.

"You know what the problem is, right?" asks Sam.

Steve doesn't answer.

"It's you. I don't know where your head is at, man."

Steve turns further, presses his forehead against the window. "You shouldn't worry about me." He breaths his words against the glass, lets them settle into existence.

Sam snorts a laugh. "You know that's not how these things work." But he doesn't push it, just stares out into the flat forever he's driving them into. Steve can't tell if they're making progress anymore.

Summers spent spinning their wheels against hunger and heat, going nowhere; days spent scrounging for work, the sickly peace they'd look back on after the war started, took Bucky first and came back for Steve in the end.

The cab of the truck is full of dust and sunshine and Sam's banging on the dash, fighting with the AC, with the radio. Bucky somewhere lost and so far from what Steve is able to reach. If he ever finds him, that's the first thing that's going to come out of his mouth.  _I did this to you_.

**Author's Note:**

> The title and quote are from "Empty" by Ray Lamontagne.


End file.
